


Only Cowards Fall

by NahaFlowers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty angsty angst, M/M, Madeleine Era, May be slightly OOC, TW: Suicide, Unbeta'd, tw: dubcon due to identity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:58:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NahaFlowers/pseuds/NahaFlowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Valvert gift exchange. Established relationship, Valjean runs into Javert right after returning from Arras. Javert hasn’t heard about the confession yet and he’s really happy to see his lover he’s no longer suspicious of. Valjean can’t get rid of him without letting him know something’s wrong so they have one last time together before Valjean goes to Fantine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Cowards Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah1281](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah1281/gifts).



> I'm really sorry I didn't have time to check this over or have it beta'd - I literally wrote nearly all of it today. That said, I hope you...enjoy?

Afterwards, he would wonder what he could have done differently when he returned from Arras to find Javert waiting for him outside his house. Afterwards, he would wonder if he could have done anything to save him, or if saving the life of Champmathieu had been worth losing Javert. Later, he would think about these things.  
He had just returned from Arras when he bumped into Javert on his way to the hospital to see Fantine. He was pacing up and down outside his house, a nervous energy causing him to fiddle with the rosary in his hands; the one Madeleine had given him when he first arrived in Montreuil. Madeleine (no, Jean Valjean, he must get used to that name again) sighed and approached his lover, tapping him on the shoulder and making him jump. 

“Monsieur le Maire,” he said, sounding relieved, “you’re back!” And he smiled beatifically at the Mayor as if he were an angel appeared to grant Javert absolution. Valjean swallowed. Clearly the news hadn’t reached Montreuil yet, or there was no way that Javert would be looking at him with such adoration in his eyes. 

“Javert,” he rumbled, his voice lower than he had expected it to be. Javert’s wolfish eyes darkened. Valjean cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

Javert looked down at the ground. “I…wanted to make things up to you, Monsieur. And since you wouldn’t let me resign, I thought…” He trailed off, a blush colouring his cheeks.

“Ah.” He paused, thinking for a minute. “Come inside, Javert,” he said finally, unlocking the door and holding it open for the Inspector.

Javert hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, carefully removing his boots and placing his stocking feet onto the wooden floor of the porch. Valjean followed slowly behind.

“I’ll make tea, shall I?” he said as they entered the living room.

“No,” said Javert sharply. “Monsieur, I need to talk to you.”

Valjean closed the door and turned to Javert. “What is it, Javert? He said tiredly, rubbing at his eyes.

“I…well…I…” Javert blushed again.

Valjean sighed, turning away from his Inspector. “Please Javert…I’m tired from my journey and I would like to visit Fantine in the hospital before I retire.” Valjean felt slightly guilty about giving Javert the cold shoulder like this, but it was better than leading Javert on, letting him make love to him, when he knew any moment the order would come through for the police (mostly likely Javert himself) to arrest him. He couldn’t do that to Javert, More, he couldn’t do that to himself. Though Valjean entertained a hope that what they shared would be enough to allow Javert to think kindly of him at least, it was little more than that. He knew that Javert followed the law to the letter, and despised anyone who didn’t, even himself. To him, Jean Valjean was just a criminal, a criminal who needed to be put back in the bagne at Toulon, under the whip and watchful eye of the guards – Valjean shuddered at the thought – and when Javert found out, he knew the Inspector would think their entire relationship had been a lie, and find Valjean even more despicable for it. Of all the horrors he had resigned himself to by going to Arras and revealing his true identity, the thought of losing – not just Javert, but the man’s respect and esteem – was the thought that hurt the most. When he contemplated Toulon, he just felt a numb sensation, an acceptance of his fate; he had always expected to be caught one day – at least this way he could meet his doom with a clear conscience. Or he could have done, had it not been for Javert. Still, he hoped that God would forgive him for his actions with the police inspector, for they had done many things together, but had not as yet consummated their relationship. That was one thing he could be grateful for, at least.

When Javert spoke again, his voice was very close to Valjean’s ear; he turned to find that Javert had crossed the room while he had been ruminating. He sucked in a surprised breath when Javert spoke. “Monsieur, it is just – I- I am ready. I would like you to take me. If…if you would like that too?” he finished uncertainly, vulnerability clear in his dark eyes. Nevertheless, his hand betrayed his lust, for it had ventured from Valjean’s shoulder down his chest, trailing slowly over his nipple before stopping to rest on his hip. 

Despite himself, Valjean reacted to Javert’s dark voice, hardening in his trousers as Javert’s other hand rested in his hair as he leaned up to kiss Valjean.

Sighing softly, Valjean surrendered to Javert’s tongue, letting him plunder his mouth. _Just one last kiss_ , thought Valjean, _to remember me by._ So Valjean let himself be kissed, but did not kiss back, did not encourage Javert in any way… _But you’re not discouraging him either_ , a traitorous little voice in Valjean’s head whispered. Valjean closed his eyes, trying to ignore it. A few seconds later, however, Valjean pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” Javert asked wide-eyed, wrapping his arms around the Mayor and pulling him closer, trying to continue their kiss.

Valjean shook his head. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” he said, waving a hand, “it’s just…Fantine…” he muttered vaguely.

“That prostitute?” Javert scoffed. Valjean’s eyes narrowed. “Surely she can wait?” Javert pleaded in a much more reasonable tone. “Please m’sieur,” he implored, his voice turning sultry, hands moving from Valjean’s hips to his crotch. “I want you to fuck me,” he murmured into his shoulder.

Valjean moaned, rubbing his crotch wantonly against Javert’s. “M’sieur L’inspecteur,” he countered (no, he couldn’t do this, why was he doing this?), “That is no way to talk to your superior.” His voice was a growl now, and a part of him (the part he never let out, the part that was Jean-le-Cric, the beast who only felt the most primal, base desires, of hate and lust) said that Javert was offering himself to him, the guard who represented all the misery of Toulon, and the demon whispered in his ear, told him, if he was going back to hell, then he might as well take Javert with him, and why should he deny himself this one last pleasure? “No, Inspector, I have decided,” He took a step towards the door, pulling Javert with him, “what your punishment is going to be.”

“What are you going to do with me, M’sieur?” Javert asked breathlessly, following Valjean eagerly through the door and up the stairs. 

Valjean didn’t answer until he was in his bedroom and had locked the door behind them. “I am going,” he said, turning to face Javert, “to fuck you into the mattress so hard you won’t be able to walk for days, Inspector.”

Javert whimpered, fumbling at his trousers in an effort to get them off as quickly as possible. Pulling them and his underclothes down, he lay face down on the bed, spreading his legs as wide as he could.

“Your shirt too, please, Inspector,” said Valjean, and Javert groaned and struggled up onto his knees, tugging the shirt over his head without bothering to undo any buttons. Meanwhile, Valjean had opened up his bedside drawer and was rooting around for the bottle of oil he stored there.

Having found it, Valjean crawled onto the bed, laying on top of Javert and rubbing his still clothed cock against Javert’s crack, making him moan like a whore. The sound made Valjean lose any semblance of control or reason he stilled possessed and he began biting Javert – his neck, his back – while Javert bucked beneath him like a trapped animal. Eventually, Valjean became aware that Javert was speaking – he was barely coherent, but in between groans and whines, he could hear Javert breathe “Please…please M’sieur…please” as he thrust into the bedclothes. He drew back.

“Roll over please, Javert,” he said softly, his eyes bright. “I want to see your face.”

Javert willingly obliged, immediately moving to undo Valjean’s trousers and release his erection. Valjean caught his hands and just stared down at Javert, debauched and red-cheeked on his bed. “You are beautiful, Javert.” He closed his eyes. He had to go through with this now. He almost thought it would be crueller to Javert to leave now than to go through with it and force him to handle the inevitable consequences. But if he had to do this, then he was going to make it as tender and loving to Javert as he possibly could, to try and convince him (and to convince himself) that he really was a changed man, that the Inspector was loved and the beast that Valjean had felt within him earlier had been nothing but a shadow of his past, risen up at the impending thought of Toulon.

Javert buried his head in the pillow. “Just get on with it,” he mumbled. 

Valjean laughed. “All right,” he said, panting slightly as he undid his trousers himself and pulled them down, “but only of you look at me.” Javert immediately obeyed, his eyes tracing from Valjean’s soft, kind eyes, down his still clothed body to his thick cock, already dripping with pre-come. He licked his lips.

Valjean leant forward to kiss Javert whilst undoing the bottle of oil. Leaning back so he could see what he was doing, and allowing Javert to thread his hands through his hair, he poured a copious amount of oil onto his hand and slicked his penis.

“What are you doing?” asked Javert, leaning up on his elbow slightly. “Oh,” he said, when he saw the oil dripping from Valjean’s hand and penis. His lips quirked up into a grin. “Alright, but next time I want you to go in without.”

Valjean cringed. What was he doing? How could he put Javert through this? The nasty voice in his head spoke again, saying Javert had done much worse things to him at Toulon, and he actually found this pleasurable – then he shook the thought off. Javert had never done anything to him that hadn’t been merited – at least by the strict rules of Toulon, anyway. It might have been cruel, but it was what amounted to justice in Javert’s eyes – he had always been fair, even if his idea of fairness did not equate to Valjean’s.

Valjean leaned down to kissed Javert again, softly this time, stroking his face. “I love you, Javert. I want you to remember that, and that I will always love you, no matter what.” _And I’m sorry_ , he added silently.

Javert sighed, the display of affection from the Mayor clearly making him uncomfortable. “Damnit, just get on with it, won’t you?” he gasped, then looked down in contrition, “Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean’s hands stroked down Javert’s sides, trying to smooth the scars and creases of nearly a decade of police work, or perhaps a rough childhood. Valjean had never thought to ask, never taken the time to ponder why Javert was the way he was. He wished he had now. “Are you sure?” he asked one last time. 

“Yes,” wheezed Javert, and with that, Valjean closed his eyes with regret for what they might have known, and pushed inside Javert. 

 

Valjean sobbed when he came. Javert had, in his gruff and inept way, tried to ask what was wrong, but Valjean had just waved him off, telling him he should go home and handing his clothes to him. For a moment, Javert had an expression similar to one of a puppy who had just been kicked, but then he quickly straightened up, pulled on his underclothes, trousers, and ruined shirt, then put his greatcoat on over the top before swiftly exiting the house.

Valjean sighed. He hoped Javert hadn’t taken his reaction personally, then realised what a stupid thought that was – it was personal, or would be when Javert discovered his true identity. He supposed he should go to the hospital and see how Fantine was doing, and reassure her that he would fetch her daughter as soon as possible, although all he really wanted to do at the moment was curl up in a ball, go to sleep, and preferably never wake up. Valjean shook off that feeling – he was being a coward. If he had really loved Javert, he thought, he would have told him the truth, and damn the consequences. Or at least not made love to him while Javert was unaware of his true identity. Quickly changing his clothes, and trying to tamp down the feelings of regret that threatened to overwhelm him, Valjean headed out the door and to the hospital where he had planned to go nearly an hour ago.

 

A little over ten minutes after Javert had arrived home, the messenger arrived from Arras. Javert buckled his leather stock poorly and headed to the hospital. Fantine stared and stared at Javert, terrified he had come for her. He had not. She died anyway. 

“Javert! You have killed this woman!” There it was, the anger of the convict. He could see it now. He had been foolish to think he was mistaken before – he had been foolish in many ways, he thought without feeling. He would not make such a mistake again.

“You will come with me, now.”

To any other person, Javert’s face was the picture of calm devotion to the law, but Jean Valjean, who had observed him in his most vulnerable (Javert would say his weakest) moments, could see the boiling anger and hatred beneath Javert’s mask-like demeanour.

“Javert, I’m sorry,” Javert scoffed, though it sounded more like a sob, “but I need to help this woman’s daughter. She is close to death, being kept by innkeepers who only took her to leech money out of this poor woman...” Valjean trailed off. It was clear Javert had stopped listening a long time ago, and he had pulled out his sword, the anger that had been boiling under his skin now risen to the surface. It was then that Valjean noticed Javert’s leather stock was buckled askew, just below his ear, and that he had clearly not changed his clothes since he had left Valjean’s house. _It’s more than just anger and hatred_ , he thought with a sharp pain to his gut. Those he could deal with. Those he was used to from Javert. Valjean took a step back from the Inspector who was at once a machine, a tool of the law, and at the same time, completely, _completely_ human, more human than Valjean had perhaps ever seen him, emotion after emotion passing over his face. Then Javert charged at him with a sword and Valjean thought no more. He grabbed a beam from the ceiling and parried Javert’s blow.

“Should have run while you had the change, Valjean,” Javert snarled, “but you couldn’t resist humiliating me one more time. Once a thief, always a thief.” A pained hatred passed over Javert’s face then, and he swung the sword wildly. Valjean barely managed to block the blow, despite its inaccuracy. 

“I never stole anything from you, Javert,” Valjean growled, his indignation real, although somewhere in the back of his mind, something whispered that Javert wasn’t entirely wrong. Valjean knew he did not have the moral high ground here, no matter how much he wanted to deny it.

“LIAR!” Javert roared, and suddenly he had his hand bunched in Valjean’s shirt and the point of his sword was pressed up against Valjean’s throat. Both men were breathing very heavily. “If you try to escape now,” Javert growled, “I swear to God I will kill you.” 

Valjean searched his eyes – he wasn’t lying – of course not, Javert never lied, but there was no uncertainty there either. Just rage and conviction in the rightness of the law. Valjean took a deep breath.

“Then do it,” he challenged, stepping back. Javert’s hand shuddered on the hilt of his sword and Valjean used the hesitation to turn tail and jump out of the hospital window, into the swirling waters of the river below.

 

Later that night, Javert stalked into the police station in Montreuil, frustrated. “Any news?” he asked Reynaud, his second-in-command. Reynaud shook his head mutely. Javert punched the wall in frustration. It was not often he lost his temper, and even less so in front of people (the Mayor had been the exception to that, as he had been the exception to so many other things), but this was Jean Valjean he had failed to find. That he would never find again.

Reynaud looked as though he was about to speak, but Javert silenced him with a glare and strode out of the building again, determined to patrol the river banks once more in the hope of finding... _something_ , some evidence or trail that would at least tell him where Valjean had gone. Perhaps he had gone to fetch the girl, although Javert personally doubted that, but even that was not much help – Valjean was gone, the only other person who would have been able to tell him where the girl was located was dead, and so far neither he nor his men had been able to find any letters or other written evidence as to her location. Presumably Valjean had either taken them with him or destroyed them. After all, reasoned Javert, Valjean was many things, but he was not stupid. He had learned that the hard way.

Somehow, his feet had led him to an embankment on the Canche river, and he stood there staring into the depths of the water. He had failed, he thought. He had striven to work his way out of the gutter and to stand, robust and immovable, on the side of the law. On the side of God. He had failed. He had given himself, willingly, even desperately, to a convict, a man he had already suspected. Oh, how eager he had been, thought Javert mockingly. How many little hesitations and excuses had the Mayor (Valjean, it had always been Valjean – the Mayor was a lie, had always been a lie) given, how many chances for Javert to get away, to prevent his own fall? But Javert had taken none of them. And now he had failed to captured and arrest the man (beast, animal – there was nothing of the man in him) who had caused him (and consequently the law) so much humiliation. And why? Because of his own cowardice. Because he was fool enough to think that Valjean would come quietly, or at least know when he was beaten. 

But no, that wasn’t quite right. Valjean was not beaten, yet. Valjean had escaped. Valjean had won. Javert was the one who had been beaten.

He had jumped into a convict’s arms, his bed. Now, he let himself fall.

 

Many months later, when Cosette was happily settled into convent life, Valjean returned to Montreuil, dressed in the rags of a beggar. No one recognised him as the disgraced former Mayor; no one even glanced at him as he made his way to the unmarked grave in the darkest, most crowded corner of the graveyard. No one saw him sink to his knees, or whisper “I’m sorry” in a voice broken into shards. No one saw him turn to leave again. And no one, after the initial gossip died down, remembered that Inspector Javert took his own life in the pursuit of Jean Valjean, or indeed, that such an Inspector had ever existed.


End file.
